


Incentive

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: D/s elements, M/M, Shower Sex, Smut, uuuh argument as a precursor to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: Their flat's still an absolute tip when Jamie returns, cold and miserable after stalking out of the flat, into the cool of the evening, practically spitting an ultimatum at Damon for the place to be cleared of various assorted musical instruments, books, coats, and other detritus. None of it's been moved.





	Incentive

**Author's Note:**

> Based in 1999, when they shared a flat.
> 
> Okay so due to unforseen circumstances with a very short period of notice, I will not be able to write for the next week, so the likelihood is Law 18 won't receive an update for at least two weeks. That said, I wanted to include an actual story alongside this update, and assumed I'd write a small Dalex or Jamion snippet, so I wasn't just posting an update as an additional chapter to the story, cause that's always a let-down. But I can never write short things, so this exists now.
> 
> I want to point out, that in the last update of Law 18, I mentioned the album The Bends, only to then watch that video with Graham and see those guys talking about it with him. Lately, there've been so many coincidences between mu writing and real life that I feel a little like I'm mainlining some secret knowledge of the universe... It's fucking weird.
> 
> This is unbetaed, as usual. There will be mistakes, and I have very little time to return to this and check for them. Sorry about that. I hope you enjoy!

Their flat's still an absolute tip when Jamie returns, cold and miserable after stalking out of the flat, into the cool of the evening, practically spitting an ultimatum at Damon for the place to be cleared of various assorted musical instruments, books, coats, and other detritus. None of it's been moved. Damon, laxly, reclines across the sofa in a typically risqué sprawl, taken to its logical extreme; one leg is hooked over the back of the sofa, thigh perpendicular to the ground, and the foot of his other leg is planted flat on the floor.

He's reading a trashy magazine, for all intents and purposes - although Jamie can feel Damon's attention on him, even without being able to see his face. Jamie remains in the doorway to their loft apartment, breathing still laboured from his rushed pacing. Outside the roads are still slick from heavier rain from hours earlier, though a mizzle remains, so cars passing by kicked up spray, their transit hushing. Jamie lets his anger roll through him - honestly, the walk was supposed to rid him of the rage flowing through his veins, and after a good forty minutes out there, he's chilled and hungry. He swallows heavily, licking his lips as a hysterical guffaw bubbles at his lips, annoyance twisting his features into a grimacing smirk.

"Have you done anything, in the time I was out?" Jamie speaks lightly, rhetorically, to the floor, head hanging low, hands curled around the doorframe, trying to quell his irritation. His only response is the swish of a page being turned. He shakes his head, disbelieving, unamused laughter colouring his tone. He steps forward, eyes wide, gaze intent, like he can burn through the pages and see the awful, self-satisfied, grin, no doubt spreading over Damon's face. At the sound of Jamie's passage, Damon's foot held aloft on the back of the sofa starts moving side to side to the tempo of an unheard beat, like a cat, ready to pounce. His voice raises in volume, to a normal speaking level. "Have you - in all the time I was out - moved one single thing, like I asked you to?"

A sigh, like Damon's the one being fucked with. "No." He drawls it, pulling out the syllable slow, like Jamie's an idiot. Bastard.

"Damon, get off your backside and help me." He rounds the sofa, swinging at the magazine, hand impacting the pages with a clap, and it flies from Damon's hands, wheeling over the arm of the sofa. Damon's smirk drops to a glower, both hands falling, idly, one resting on his stomach, where his stupid tee's ridden up, the other dangling off the side, tipped towards the ground but holding level with it. Jamie keeps his gaze away from the provocative imagery, vision skittering past his crotch, the hem of his top, to look straight at Damon. 

He's simmering, moves to stare straight at Jamie with a jut of his chin, eyes glimmering warningly in the light. "What the fuck, Jamie?" His voice is dangerous, soft.

"If you'd tidied up when I asked you to, that wouldn't have happened." It's snippy, cadence tight. Jamie stalks away to their coffee table, where Damon's paraphernalia's been building up into an intolerable clutter for weeks, now, feeling eyes on him. "When I agreed to share this flat with you, I made it expressly clear that it rested on you pulling your weight." He scoops up a pile of it, striding rigidly through to Damon's room, and dumping it on his bed with little fanfare, shoulders hunched. When he re-enters the room, he can see Damon staring into the wall across from him, eyebrows dark, and low, muscles in his cheek jumping as he clenches his jaw. "So fucking help me move your shit, please."

Damon rolls up from his seat, standing, face blank except for obvious distaste at being talked down to. He's unkempt, stubbled, hair left to grow out shaggily, looking leonine and tense. "Fine." He begins collecting things, silently, the whole time eyeing Jamie: he can feel Damon's attention on him, analysing his every move. It's like he was designed to perfectly manage to rub him up the wrong way. He can be a riot, normally, but when he's stubborn - usually for sake of it, to delight in other people's reactions - Jamie just wants to kick him out and shut the door, teach him a lesson.

He carries a bundle of objects, spine pulled taut as he walks, Damon following sullenly, just a few steps behind, the only sound from him the swish of his loose jeans, and his padding steps, muted by socks. Jamie feels like a specimen, being analysed: Damon never acquiesces like that, never that easily. He's scheming; he can practically feel his brain whirring, eyes sly, and narrowed.

They continue shifting Damon's stuff, wordlessly, interacting purely through sighs, and clicks of their tongues. It's hot work; Jamie's sweating through his shirt, and Damon's tee fares no better, sticking a little in the small of his back, underarms shaded a darker khaki. All of it gets dumped unceremoniously on Damon's bed, who takes care to place things down with slightly more care, gaze heavy and meaningful, whilst Jamie couldn't care less. Having Damon this quiet is off-putting, unsettling. Even after only a few months living with him, Jamie's so used to him humming, even during small chores, his mind a constant whirl of ideas, that this is foreboding. He keeps a wary eye on him, like he's a wild animal that could turn at any time.

With one armful left, Jamie just glares at Damon until he gathers it up, hefting it easily. His trousers are slipping down, and through the act of gathering the objects, his tee's pulled up at the front, paler strip of skin slanting around his side. Jamie can see the waistband of his boxers easily. He just tuts loudly, shaking his head and turning away, walking over to the adjoining kitchen area to inspect the fridge for what they could eat, what could be thrown together quickly and sate his appetite. Upon opening the fridge he's horrified to see little left, mostly disparate things and no main ingredients. He grits his teeth, clenching his hand around the door of the fridge as he stares into its depths, cold washing over him, like the act of watching will reveal some previously unseen meal option to him. "Fucking hell, Damon! I thought you said you'd buy stuff."

"Well, I was too busy today." Jamie flinches. Damon's behind him, somehow ghosted noiselessly towards him, and is still moving, coming to inspect the state of provisions - at least, ostensibly. He wouldn't be surprised if it were the next step in a plan to convince Jamie to throttle him. Why that would be necessary, Jamie has no idea, but recently, Damon's been spoiling for a fight, antsy, all up in Jamie's face, giddy at his reactions. "I work, you see." He drifts off, bringing his heat with him: Jamie shivers.

"I fucking had work today, too. I have work everyday - I still do the shit that's important; the stuff that I say I'll do. Such as buying some fucking food." He slams the fridge door shut, turning to look at the other man, surprised to see him kneeling to rummage in some cupboards. His arm's extended to the back, and with the lighting from above, his deltoid's shadowed, evident. The sleeve of his size-too-small tee is tight around it. Jamie shuts his eyes, breath wavering as he exhales at length, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Frustration leaves him without motivation to continue the rather one-sided argument; Damon loves a boisterous discussion, so his disinclination to engage is suspicious.

Damon makes a noise of success, startling Jamie a little from his musing. Damon pulls back sinuously to sit back on his heels, back curved, grinning as he holds a bag of pasta aloft. Jamie paces incredulously over to him, stopping a foot away from his shoulder, snatching the packet, gaze first flitting over it, then Damon, and back again. The other man's face is turned up to him, eyes fixed on him as Jamie mulls over what they could rustle up. There's a flash of pink in his periphery as Damon wets his lips, before breaking his stare, going back to root through the cupboard.

Jamie's irritation is clearing, a little, and he steps closer to the hob, setting down the pasta, packaging rustling. He leans back, hips against the counter, hands braced either side. Damon pulls back again, smoothly, a can of tuna in his hand, raising his eyebrow at Jamie, who sighs, again. "Sure, let's do that." Damon grins brightly, leaping to his feet. The difference in his bearing and countenance is incredible - Jamie always knew he was mercurial via endless tales from Graham, but it's another thing seeing it in the flesh.

As always, Damon's proficiency in the kitchen is a surprise. He's the kind of guy who, at times, acts so laddish, Jamie knows why he hated him for the first nine years of knowing him. In others, he's pretty certain he's talking to an entirely different person. Damon's humming again, outwardly pleased, and Jamie's a little concerned at the kind of revenge he's in for. Undeserved - there's no doubt about it, Damon's been a dick about it all - but Damon hates being fettered, disrespected. Sure, he can deal with banter easily, but not being told what to do.

Twenty-odd minutes later, they're sat on the sofa together, both eating and watching telly. Usually, there'd be an easy camaraderie, snappy back and forth, and merciless mocking - this evening, they sit in contemplative quiet, letting the chatter of the programme roll over them, chewing idly. Jamie tries to divine quite what Damon's thinking as he eats, staring blankly at the screen, though he doesn't turn his head, using the edge of his vision instead. A clatter of metal on ceramic announces that Damon's finished, and he stands, a dark silhouette in Jamie's view, with the bright of the television on him. Damon sets down his plate on the floor before stretching his arms over his head languidly, at length, leaning to either side, before exhaling. It's obscene.

Jamie jolts with sudden realisation at this, tracking with guarded eyes as the other man moves to leave his plate in the kitchen, and begin tidying up - perhaps Damon's not been acting solely aggressively towards him to bring about the verbal conflicts he seems to enjoy so much; there's something else, broiling just underneath the surface of so many of those interactions. His stomach drops in a burst of excitement. Damon's never been coy about his sexuality towards him, going so far as to tell him outright, and he remembers talking with Graham for years, and the depth of feeling there, whenever conversation inevitably turned towards him. But... Damon wants him...

Jamie stares at his plate for a second, suddenly nervous. He's still got some left, and he chases the pasta around the plate, collecting a last chunk of tuna, and wolfing it down, desperate to get to a vantage where he can observe Damon, unpick the minutiae of their sparring. The only way to do that is to rile him again. He walks, tentatively at first, then increasing the frequency and length of his strides, before anticipation kicks in, and he moves hesitantly again.

Damon knows he's there, cocks his head but doesn't directly acknowledge him, hands clad in yellow washing-up gloves, so he should look ridiculous. But his shoulder blades are blatant under his top, as he works. Jamie breathes in, stuttering, before pulling himself together. He puts on a sneer, hoping it infuses in his tone. "Don't fucking forget to do what you're told, next time." He notes how, though Damon doesn't stop cleaning, his back straightens a little, and he lifts his gaze to stare directly at the window in front of him, black and mirror-like in the night.

"And you're fucking perfect, are you?" His voice is tight. He steadfastly keeps cleaning.

"Not at all." He saunters closer, a little thrill coursing through him at Damon forcing to remain civil, to keep face. He deposits his plate on the counter beside him, remaining the barest distance behind him, so the other man bristles. Jamie can see the stitching of the neck of Damon's tee. "Still..." He pats his hand against Damon's shoulder, leaning in close enough to speak into his ear, smirk hard to fight against, throwing on a teasing, taunting lilt. "It's not hard to be better than you. Goodnight, buddy."

He leaves before he can witness what Damon might say, only able to keep up the bravado until he's out of sight, and then he's terrified. Why did he do that? He could've just let it blow over, have some peace, until their next fight. He rolls his eyes at his impulsiveness. Honestly, though, he's still on a little bit of a high. Who knew playing with Damon could be so fun.

\---

Jamie wakes, not fully sure why. There's something wrong in the aura of the place. He looks blearily to his clock, squinting at the digital figures. Three thirty-seven in the fucking morning. He grinds the heel of his hand on the skin over his cheekbone, then presses against his eye lighter. He blinks a few times, trying to rouse himself through sheer force of will.

He slips from his sheets, trying to let as little of the heat out from under the quilt as possible. It's cold, typical of a winter night. Yellow-orange light leaks through the gaps between the curtains and the wall, lending him a better view of his room, easing his stumbling navigation. His door's ajar, and he nudges it open, walking towards Damon's room. He squints in confusion, then opens his eyes wider, then tries using his peripheral vision instead, in order to discern whether Damon's there, in his room. Instead, in a disorganised sprawl, is his clutter. Tidying would've woken Jamie: he didn't get a chance to clear his bed.

Huh. Jamie leans against both arms, braced on either side of the doorframe. Tidying would've been a perfect opportunity to get on Jamie's nerves, keep him awake. But that would've somehow been different to everything else he's done... even less considerate. The kind of annoyance that isn't playful. Jamie tips his head down, blindly staring at the floor. Interesting. He sucks at his cheek, pulling some of the flesh of it between his teeth, then clicks his tongue in the quiet.

After a few more seconds of musing, Jamie pushes back off the frame, padding up the corridor towards the living room. The hallways's almost pitch black, having no windows, so Jamie trails his fingertips over the wall, feeling the ridges of the door to the bathroom's frame, skimming over its recessed expanse, then back to the wall again. Ahead of him, the space opens up into the living room, and the adjoining kitchen. A little bit of light emanates from the latter's space, shielded from him by a partial wall, so the illumination slices the space in two at an angle.

Damon's not sprawled on the sofa, like he might've expected, but there are signs of attempts at sleep: a fleece sliding off the sofa, precarious in its sprawl, like it was kicked off in frustration, and pillows from Damon's bed. He treads carefully, steps soft on the lino. Damon's clutching at a mug of what Jamie assumes is hastily made tea, looking wrecked, sleepless; his hair's in tufts, eyes shadowed beneath, and he's hunched, like he can't expend the effort on better posture. He stares at Jamie unwelcomingly from beneath his brows, lips on the rim of the mug as he sips. He's shirtless, in only boxers, free hand braced against the worktop behind him, arm straight and tense. There's a wildness to him, something about the light in his eye, how unkempt he is. The stubble.

Jamie suppresses the shudder trying to spread from his shoulders, heart speeding, not just with waking up after a couple of hours of unconsciousness. "Have you slept at all?" He thinks he knows the answer.

Damon grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. "No." It grates reluctantly from his throat, husky.

Jamie sighs, tips his head back. If he's going to do something stupid, he may as well do it now. "Fine. You can sleep with me." He sniffs, trying to affect a haughtiness to deflect from any double entendre that might be found in his words. He's in luck: Damon isn't in the mood for joking. He knows the feeling, the frustration that occurs when trying desperately to sleep, and it continually, relentlessly evades you. It feels like you'll never sleep again.

Damon necks the rest of his tea, throat working, a drop of tea leaking past his lips, and Jamie blinks, swallowing against the familiar flavour of desire to his thoughts. Damon seems not to notice, lowering the mug to the counter with an impatient clunk, licking the moisture from his lips, then swiping at them with the back of his hand. He stalks towards Jamie, snorting when he gets close, and he still hasn't moved. "C'mon Jamie." He nudges him with his elbow, spurring him to motion.

As he begins walking, Damon switches the light off, and he's rendered blind. He falls back on touch, again, tracing the wall. He can hear Damon's footsteps, his breaths, the scuffing of both their fingers against the paint. Damon's a vague distance behind, and in the dark, Jamie's vulnerable - really, Damon could spring on him, push him against the wall, kiss him, fuck him. He would't object - in fact, he'd quite fancy it. There's a bit of adrenaline in his veins, his breath hitches, and he can feel his cock twitch at the lurid sequence of events his mind's building. He's almost disappointed when he reaches the doorway to his room unaccosted. But it's late. They're both tired.

Jamie slides into his side of the bed, noting how there's still residual heat, much of it having radiated away. It's a warningly familiar feeling, having the bed dip. It reminds him of his partners, makes him long for company he can touch, unabashed, hold tight, find comfort in lying beside. Instead, there's Damon, all bare skin, and far too warm. He can feel the line Damon's arm traces, just from the heat emanating from it onto his. They're both lay supine, uncomfortably wooden, until Damon scoffs, rolling onto his side, so his back's to Jamie. "Goodnight."

Jamie shifts, so they're mirroring each other. "Night."

\---

Damon's arm is heavy over his waist, as Jamie comes to. He's uncomfortably warm from their embrace, and their legs are tangled, but Jamie can feel Damon's erection pressing at the base of his spine. There's heat pooling in his groin, half-hard too. If there's one thing Jamie's certain of, it's that Damon's awake - there's something about the rhythm of his breaths, each too long and lax - perfectly so - to be sleeping. Jamie wants to press back, snake his hand down to touch himself, but he's paralysed by conflicting thoughts, and he remains still, confused at how still Damon's holding himself. He could've left, but he didn't want to wake Jamie. And now they're stuck. Someone has to be the instigator.

Jamie needs to reach back, touch Damon's hip: beckon him closer, show him that Jamie wants this too. He begins moving his hand, heart in his throat.

Damon recoils from him, pushing his hand away, almost roughly, and Jamie swallows down the pleas bubbling in his throat, hurt in a way he can't describe. Rejection, but he never even asked for anything. Damon's already extricating himself from the warmth, cold air rushing in, and it's one of the most clumsy displays from him Jamie's ever heard - he hasn't turned around to watch, staring at his bedside table, a portion of his vision taken up by the white of the pillow case. Breathlessly, Damon speaks, as he's fleeing the room. "Don't flatter yourself."

Jamie squeezes his eyes shut, stricken. He knows Damon's being defensive, and is scared, and Jamie never volunteered for anything. He's sure Damon thinks Jamie was going to attempt to push him away, or wake him and politely ask him to leave. He has no idea their flirtation has the possibility of being mutual. He rolls his eyes, mutters to himself, hears a flurry of activity as Damon gathers clothes and a towel, and heads into the bathroom to shower. Worse are the ideas this prompts. He's seen that magazine cover, knows how delightfully wanton Damon can look for the camera. "Fuck."

He peels himself from the bed, steps stumbling, and a little desperate. He strides down the corridor, feeling uncomfortable in his ratty tee, and boxers. "Hey, Damon!" He raises his voice to be heard over the rush of water, a little bit of desperation leaking into his tone, hammering with his knuckles on the door. "Damon?"

There's a broken gasp, some muffled, colourful cursing. There's the sound of the shower doors peeling open, then sealing shut again. A second or two later, Damon opens the door a crack, towel looped around his hips, held together by his left hand, clenched white-knuckled around the abrasive material, hair only slightly damp, as though he was just about to enter the spray. He's hunched, skin glittering with rivulets, teeth bared as he speaks. "Fucking leave me alone, Jamie." There's a deep, hungry, tinge to his voice, lower than normal, and Jamie shivers. Damon takes in the image of him for the first time, takes in the state of him, boxers tented, fists clenched at his sides.

"Let me in." Damon pauses, like he never once entertained this possibility as an outcome. Slowly, he steps back, scrutinising Jamie the whole time, pacing backwards with the towel still protecting him, the only shield left. The shower's filling the air with steam, and breathing feels a bit more laboured, compounding with the effects of arousal to make Jamie a little light-headed. He pushes the door shut behind him, and immediately feels a little more comfortable - like it makes this all more real, more plausible, with him acknowledging the chance he had to leave, and denying it. He pulls his tee off first, gulping as he's observed intently, drops it to the floor.

Damon steps closer, prowling, and a frisson sinks down Jamie's spine, straight to his cock. He backs away as Damon steps closer, but now he knows he isn't going to leave, wants this, Damon seems less inclined to take it as a bad sign, tilting his head as he scours him with his eyes, intent, looking for signs of Jamie beginning to regret his decision. "You want this?"

Damon stops, right in front of him, where Jamie's flush against the door, a foot between them. Jamie swallows, nods quickly, eyes bugging as Damon drops his towel, presses against him, so Jamie can feel the damp of his skin, the insistent press of his cock against his hip, through the boxers. Damon's eyes are narrowed in concentration, lashes long, and dark. Here, Jamie can see little drops of water gathered on them, like beads. Damon's ethereal, and shoddily-kept, and it's the best juxtaposition of looks he's seen in a long time. He exhales shakily, as Damon leans gradually to the side, traces his lips over the corner of Jamie's mouth, across his jaw, up to his ear, where he snakes his tongue out to flick at the lobe.

Jamie can see the glint of Damon's earring, shudders as he starts laving down Jamie's neck, his clavicles, stomach, and lower, hands drifting along with his passage, until they reach the hem of his boxers, hooking under the waistband, and pulling down. From his kneeling position, Damon looks at his cock, then up at Jamie, smirking deviously. He leans in, their eyes remaining locked, to kiss its head, chuckling as Jamie lifts his eyes to the ceiling helplessly, clenching his hands either side of his thighs, head hitting the door with a clunk. Then Damon leans to kiss his hipbone wetly, adding teeth, sucking, and Jamie cries out, tangles his hand in Damon's perfectly messy hair. He can feel Damon laugh against his skin, hands stroking at his flanks soothingly, as he rises to his feet again, the sheer weight of his presence and current mood enough to knock the breath straight from Jamie's lungs.

Damon kisses him on the cheek, just a chaste brush of lips, noses along his cheekbone, over his ear, buries his face in Jamie's neck, wrapping his arms loosely around his waist, resting against him. Jamie can feel Damon's length against his own, and he gasps a little, hips twitching, feeling the slow spread of a smile on Damon's face against his shoulder, muscles in his abdomen twitching. He brings his hands up, pressing them tight against Damon's slightly damp back, ushered by Damon, guiding them towards the shower. He steps from his boxers where they were pooled around his ankles, their motion shambling and arrhythmic, trying to choreograph their movements but too caught up in the sensations against their skin.

Damon removes an arm from their embrace momentarily, leaving a patch of Jamie's skin bereft, too cool, as he reaches around to pull apart the shower doors, a wash of humid air rolling out over them. Damon steps into the spray backwards, increasing in height, with the raised basin of the shower, pulling his head back so their gazes are locked, and Jamie can see each individual striation in his steely eyes, each lash, each hair of his eyebrows. His fringe traces the line of his brows, chaotic, and his head's haloed by tiny droplets, eyes soft, softer than Jamie's ever seen. He understands now, understands why Graham was so taken with him.

Damon presses Jamie back into the tiles, and the cold on his back contrasts intensely with the heat of Damon along his front, bolstered by the water falling over them. Damon sets about worrying at Jamie's neck with his teeth, leaving little nips and kisses, but nothing too evident, as he strokes his hand over Jamie's side, heading inexorably to his crotch, but stopping every second or so to circle his fingers, tickling Jamie's abdomen, making the muscles there twitch. When Damon finally glides his fingertips up the underside of his cock, Jamie bucks his hips, sighing into the space, their breaths amplified in the enclosed area. Damon's grinding slowly on his leg, his skin slippery with water, so he's panting hotly on Jamie's neck as he works his cock.

Jamie can only lean heavily against the wall, the pressure of the wall and Damon on him the only two things keeping him grounded. Damon's single-minded in his purpose, bringing Jamie off with firm, tight strokes, encouraging him to fuck the circle of his fingers, as he himself holds himself tight against Jamie, right hand looped around his back, fingers curled possessively around his hip, biting at his clavicles to mute his gasps. Jamie's close, feels wrecked, the tension of the last day burning off him, and no doubt it's the same for Damon, their movements becoming haphazard, loose, ragged, until Jamie comes, and his legs feel non-existent, mind floating in a haze of pleasure. He's still aware of Damon pressing against his hip, before he groans, kissing Jamie open-mouthed, sharing the sound with little embarrassment, blatant and brazen as always, before leaning to rest his forehead against Jamie's shoulder, panting, their embrace sticky, relaxed.

Jamie can feel his heartbeat in his chest, and Damon's too. Their breaths are syncopated. He feels like a foal, unsteady on his own legs, and deliriously pleased with himself. He chuckles, astonished, grinning as Damon laughs against him, tightening his arms around Jamie's waist, and Jamie brings his arms up to hug him closer, enjoying this unexpected chance to take refuge in his friend's company, water still beating down on them.

All too soon, they have to extricate themselves, wash, clean their hair, but Damon's sweet in the aftermath, pecking him on the cheek, his shoulder. And Jamie revels in it, these two unexpected aspects of the man, looks forward to the evening, if the look he gets from Damon as they're both drying off is anything to go by. Jamie grins to himself; he made the right decision.


End file.
